Marianne and the Colonel
by MaleficentMo
Summary: Disgustingly schmoopy married fluff. POV Brandon. Married musings on his "angel"


"Doubt thou the stars are fire

Doubt that the sun doth move

Doubt truth to be a liar

But never doubt I love"

Colonel Brandon was a simple man- he had worked to become so, and counted it to his own credit. His storied past made it necessary for him to be so.

And he had been a simple man for so long, it was now simply his nature. He wondered sometimes, at the contradictions that his Marianne caused inside him. The feelings he had for her were complex and layered- he understood and accepted that even he himself would most probably never comprehend their depths. But they were also so simple. He loved her. He adored her. He worshipped, esteemed, respected, flamed, and often times didn't understand her. He loved that, too.

He called her "angel." She liked it when he did so, and he lived to please her. But he knew that she didn't understand- not completely.

She was light. She was passionate, strong, blazing, never tiring, indefatigable light. She blazed with a brilliance that could be seen no matter where he was. They could be at opposite extremes of the world, and he would still feel her light. She would still be his angel.

And she was so pure. Her purity was not tied to her youth, as is the case with so many. She had an unadulterated joy that could never be tamed, a simple curiosity that couldn't be quenched. Her mind was always striving, reaching to learn more, to realise more, to absorb all it could. And yet did he, a man in his thirties, not learn new things every day he was with her?

The passion he felt could not be put into words, which was testament to it's power. He was not the sort of man to feel things shallowly, or to love halfway- and neither was she. And he felt with every particle of his being that she was an angel, crafted so delicately in the hands of the Almighty to be his perfect pair, just his. There could be no other explanation. And so, every morning, he made sure to thank God for her.

But he also knew that one cannot expect any woman to be one's angel until first a heaven is created. And he wanted her to be happy. To be comfortable. And so she knew that he would ride to the ends of the known world, and off into the vast unknown, to fetch for her whatever whim her heart desired. But she never did so, for she so disliked when he left her. Sometimes it was necessary for business, but when that was the case he never wasted a moment, always on edge until he can leap onto his horse and return to her side. He couldn't get enough of her.

He remembers their wedding night- she had been curled up on a chair in front of the fire, it was the early hours, she was wearing only his shirt, and she was reading one of the many books he had given her before his library had become her own. He had gone downstairs to get some fruit and water, for the servants all had gone to bed hours ago. He missed her terribly. He quickly filled a tray, and raced up he stairs (he, a man of five and thirty! He had never thought to be hurrying in any circumstances ever again) to be by her side once more. But as he achieved the doorway to hi- their. Their bedroom. As he reached the door, he stopped in his tracks. She had not heard him come up, and so sat, absorbed in the works of Pope, lightly biting her lower lip, and he could not make himself move. All he was capable of doing in that moment was stare. Her hair, always carefully curled and pinned into place, was down her back, the sides a bit frizzy, voluminous curls. Her face, always carefully neutral in society, was open and intense, concentrating on a particular passage. Her legs were bare, and pulled up to her chest, her arms bare as well, the cuffs rolled up and out of her way.

She was glorious.

Probably having felt the stare, she looked up at him, and he watched as her long, dark lashes lifted and revealed her eyes. Oh, how lovely were her eyes. She held universes in them. They held all of her in them. They blazed like the sun and calmed him like a gentle breeze.

She blushed a bit at his stare and moved to tidy herself, suddenly self-conscious. All it took was a "please, don't" to make her stop and look up again.

Her beautiful lips parted slightly as she realised, and a becoming blush stained her cheeks and neck. He loved her blushes- they made her freckles stand out.

She cleared her throat and assumed confidence like a gown.

"Well if you are going to stare, my love, might you be so kind as to do so while sitting with me? I miss you." She smiled coyly, and he was lost.

She was a radiant, pure, curious, self-conscious, passionate, magnetic angel, and by some incomprehensible mistake in the universe she was his. And he knew he would never let her go, and he knew she would never let him.


End file.
